#remember when i said soap kept being injured from ghost for his own good and said it was a thought for another day?

[s0fter-sin]

god the way ghost’s voice drops when he tells soap, “you’ll need to improvise to survive”

before that, everything he says is steady but when he acknowledges that soap’ll have to do something outside his skill set, something he intimately knows to be difficult, his voice wavers. he does the same when he says, “welcome to guerrilla warfare”; it’s sombre and serious in a way he doesn’t act for the rest of the mission. if you read into it enough, he almost sounds apologetic; like he knows exactly what soap’s about to go through and wishes he didn’t have to

he keeps soap going; poking at him and making jokes, giving him tips and asking about his progress. he never lets him stop and take a second to think bc he knows the moment he does is the moment it'll all hit him; the betrayal, the pain, the fear, the deaths, all of it will drown him and if that happens, soap won't make it

he needs him to be a soldier through and through and he knows this is one of the worst kinds of battlefields you could end up on

and the only times he slips is when he acknowledges that fact

it happens again when he says, "tryin' to get you here alive and in one piece". his jovial dark humour facade drops for just a moment when he has to face the potential reality of losing soap. then he tries to pick it back up again with, "one of us has to survive to tell the tale"; completely discounting himself as a survivor to try and rally soap and make him think it’s all down to him

and soap does the same thing

when he's calling out for ghost on the radio, he's tentative, testing the frequency, then when he doesn’t get a response, he grows desperate; "ghost, this is 7-1, do you copy?"

then when ghost answers, he smooths out his voice; he hides the pain, the fear, and no matter what response you give to ghost asking if he’s injured, soap brushes it off (“i’m good”, “what’s the difference?”, “i’m not a medic”). soap decides it’s in ghost’s best interest to hide the extent of his injuries

he doesn’t know where ghost is, if he’s secure, if he has any weapons; he doesn’t even know if he’s in las almas until he says, “there’s a church, i’m headed to it”. for all he knows, he could’ve run in the complete opposite direction. if ghost knows he’s hurt, then his attention would be split between his own survival and soap’s

and soap, who lets himself be poked and prodded towards the church, needs to hide his own doubts. maybe he needs ghost to believe he'll make it so he himself can believe it ("what are my odds?" "don't make me bet against you", "think i'll live that long?" "probably not")

he all but begs ghost to tell him he'll get through it and if he knows just how bad off he is, maybe he'll change his mind. maybe he'll think he won't make it to the church

maybe he'll leave him alone for good

"you injured?"

"i’m good"

"let's find out how good you are"

[simonxriley]

Crimson Day - Chapter 3

Pairing: Simon “Ghost” Riley x Gary “Roach” Sanderson

Summary:  After Ghost and Roach survived Shepherd’s onslaught, they confess their true feelings for one another. Agreeing on leaving this life behind, they decide to buy a house together.

chapter 1 - chapter 2

ao3 & FF

Roach couldn't stop laughing. Out of everything, Ghost was going to miss his beloved ACR the most. Roach found it comical.

"Mate. It's not that funny. You can stop laughing now." Ghost glared at Roach when he wouldn't stop laughing. Roach tried to calm himself down before he started crying on the spot.

"I'm sorry. I'm sorry. It's just funny, that's all." He was still on the cusp of laughing again. Ghost just shook his head and walked away. Roach sat down in the observation box to watch what his boyfriend does best. Boyfriend. Roach smirked when he thought of that word. The infamous Simon "Ghost" Riley is his boyfriend. Roach couldn't be happier. Ghost's injuries didn't seem to affect his abilities on the course. He still held the record for best time, even while injured. Roach was a little envious with how good Ghost is. He tried to beat his score more than once and failed each time. He decided it would be best just to try and break his own record. Eventually he did.

Once Ghost was done, he walked back into the armory to put back the ACR. Roach met him outside the room. He leaned on the wall with his hands in his pockets. There's not much to do now. There were about a handful maybe more left of the 141. Thanks to Shepherd and the shadow company. Ghost walked out of the armory and saw Roach leaning against the wall. "Fancy seeing you here."

Roach gave Ghost a little shove for his sarcastic remark. "Shut up."

They started to walk around the base, since there was nothing better to do. They wouldn't be aloud to go back to Roach's place until Soap and Price would be back. If they come back. That thought crossed Roach's mind more than once since they've left. "Do you think they'll make it back?"

"Soap and Price?" Roach nodded. They left a week ago and they still weren't back. It could be a number of things why they haven't, but it still made Roach worry.

"They'll be fine. Shepherd's probably being his usual wanker self and running away. We should be out there with them." Ghost stated. A tint of anger in his voice.

"Yeah. You're probably right." Ghost wanted to go after Shepherd ever since he woke up in the infirmary. Soap insisted Ghost should stay here and heal. The only reason he obeyed the order was because of Roach.

"We're both not fit for active duty, remember?"

"Bollocks. Fucking Shepherd. He's lucky Soap and Price are after him. If it was me, I would make him suffer." Roach just hummed his answer. He wanted to be out there too. To help catch the bastard. Ghost never trusted Shepherd. He was partially grateful Shepherd recruited him after the incident with his family, but he never fully trusted him. A man who doesn't care about his troops is no man to be trusted. Shepherd would have murdered anyone and everyone if it kept him safe.

They ended up outside. Roach kicked at a rock that was by his feet and looked around. This place used to be busy, you could see a person everywhere you turned, along with tanks and armored vehicles being moved, even the occasional helicopter. Now it was basically a ghost town. Night was fast approaching, with it being too dark to see much of anything, they went back inside.

"You hungry?" Roach asked as he clenched his growling stomach. He didn't realize how hungry he was until he smelled whatever the other person was cooking.

"Yeah. Food sounds good." The closer they got to the kitchen, the more prominent the smell became. It only made Roach's stomach growl more. Entering the kitchen, they spotted Chemo.

"That smells good. What'd you make?" Roach asked while he grabbed the loaf of bread.

"Chicken parm." Chemo simply stated. With that, he left the kitchen, leaving Ghost and Roach alone. Roach was too hungry to cook anything, so he decided to make a turkey sandwich. With him being to immersed in making his sandwich, he never noticed Ghost was staring at him. When he went back to the refrigerator to grab the lettuce he finally noticed.

"Why...why are you staring at me?" Ghost let a small laugh escape his lips, walking over to stand in front of Roach.

"You're just cute to watch, that's all." Roach could feel his cheeks heat up. He tried to hide the red tint, he knew he failed when he heard Ghost laugh again.

"Come here." Ghost grabbed the front of Roach's shirt and pulled him in for a kiss......The first kiss in hours. Roach missed the contact. He missed his lips on Ghost's. He pulled away after sometime. Ghost giving him a look.

"We can continue this later. Food now." Roach said while walking back to the table to finish making his sandwich. Ghost let out a disappointed sigh and walked over to make one himself. Once he was done, he waited patiently for Ghost to finish making his. With all the ingredients back in their respectable places, they went back into the rec-room. Sitting on the couch, Roach took no time in shoving the sandwich in his mouth. A satisfied moan leaving his him.

"Is this how it's going to be living with you?" Ghost asked after a bite. Roach waited to finish the bite in his mouth before answering.

"Yes. You agreed to it so." Roach shrugged, taking another bite. Ghost didn't say anything, he did agree to it. He'd take Roach and his love for food over being alone any day. It wasn't long after when Roach started complaining about a stomach ache. He was sprawled out of the couch groaning and clutching his stomach.

"You wouldn't have a stomach ache if you didn't scarf down that sandwich in less than 30 seconds and did the same to the other 2 you made."

Roach stopped his groaning to glare at him. "It's not my fault, I was hungry......God I haven't felt this full since I was a teenager." Roach was always good with eating in moderation when he was working. When he was on leave, that was a different story.

"It's not your fault, huh? Did your legs involuntarily walk you back to the kitchen to make another sandwich?" said Ghost who let out an amused laugh. He looked at the mess of a boyfriend he had and shook his head, turning his head back to the tv to resume what he was watching.

"Shut up you bastard" mumbled Roach. Ghost returned his attention back to Roach, he arched an eyebrow, but before he could say anything, Chemo bursted into the room. Roach and Ghost gave him a bewildered look.

"Guys come here." was all Chemo said before leaving. Roach and Ghost got up off the coach and headed in Chemo's direction. Chemo didn't say anything, he just them follow him. Coming to the infirmary Roach spotted what Chemo got them for. Sitting on one of beds getting looked at was Soap, Price sat in a chair next to him. It didn't look like they were injured too badly, which is good. Roach let out a relieved sigh. He was happy to know his friends were alive. He walked into the room to see how they were. Soap and Price glanced over to the door when they heard it open.

"You know, I'm happy you guys are alive..but could you have at least radioed us or something. I was worried." Roach crossed his arms and stared at Soap.

"Sorry mate. Radio got broken when we attacked shadow company." said Soap. Roach nodded. He looked over Soap trying to assess his injuries.

"What's the damage. It doesn't look like you guy's got too injured?" asked Roach. He glanced over to Price, who was lighting a cigar. Roach shook his head and let out a chuckle. Leave it to Price to light a cigar in the infirmary.

"Just a bunch of scraps and bruises for the most part. I got stabbed by Shepherd, luckily Price showed up just in time." said Soap. He lifted his shirt to show Roach. It was in his lower abdomen. He flinched when he saw it. It brought back what happened 3 weeks ago.

"What about you?" asked Roach. Price hasn't said a word since he's came in.

"He's fine mate. Just angry." said Soap. He glanced over to Price than back to Roach.

"Don't you bloody say anything Soap." Hissed Price after a moment. Roach raised an eyebrow, something happened. But what? Roach wondered. Soap laughed and told them anyways.

"Shepherd got the upper hand when Price came to my rescue. I ended up having to save his arse."

Roach turned to Price, who shot him a warning look. "Well it looks like you bested him since you're still here." He was hoping that would help, but Price just scoff at the comment. Better to leave him alone until he cools down.

"I'll leave you guys alone now. Have a nice night!" Roach left the room. He realized Ghost wasn't with him. Was Ghost even in the room with him, now that he thinks of it, no he wasn't. The first place he'd check was their room. Opening the door he spotted who he was looking for. Ghost was on the bed reading a book. Roach closed the door behind him and sat on the edge of the bed. Ghost didn't say anything, just kept his attention to his book, but Roach could tell there was something wrong by the atmosphere in the room.

"You okay?" asked Roach. Ghost sighed and but down his book.

"Everything's fine, why?" said Ghost. Roach hoped Ghost would open up more with his feeling when they move in together. Even though Ghost has opened up more since the incident, he was still closed off a little. Bad habits are hard to break sometime.

"No it's not. Talk to me." said Roach. He covered Ghost's hand with his own. Ghost moved his hand from Roach's and got off the bed. Roach watched every move. Ghost leaned over the desk and took a deep breath.

"I can't go in there." mumbled Ghost. Roach got off the bed and went to his side. He put his hand on his back, hoping the gesture would help ease what he was going through.

"Why not?"

Ghost turned to Roach and gave him a small smile. "It brings me back to when you were there."

Of course, why didn't he think of that. Those memories of seeing Roach in the infirmary right after the incident were still fresh in his mind. Roach did his best to push those memories as far away as possible.

"I can't lose you Gary." Those words were barely above a whisper but Roach heard them. Roach cupped the side of Ghost's face, Ghost leaned into the touch.

"You're not going to lose me Simon. Never have, never will." Roach leaned over to kiss Ghost. That seemed to be the right push. Ghost broke the kiss and smiled at him. Taking his hand and pulling onto the bed. Roach moved so his back was against the wall, leaving enough room for Ghost to lay down. Once Ghost was settled, Roach scooted over so his head was resting on his chest.

Roach smiled to himself. He was cuddling in bed with the man he loves and his friends are alive. Now the only thing left to do is tell Soap and Price about their retirement plan. In his eyes the future was looking promising.

[funkzpiel]

Could you do something about Graves losing his job and everything going downhill from there? Maybe he ends up couch surfing or living off charity until Theseus comes to the rescue.

He knew it was coming. After all, a man who cannot defend himself can hardly defend America. Had he hold Theseus, he knew the man would no doubt tell him he was being too hard on himself. And due to his distaste of Seraphina and American politics, he would site that the move was more political and dirty than anything else. But Graves knows the game, and even if the decision was more to cast blame off MACUSA than it was to punish him, he gladly accepted the opportunity to assist his country. If he couldn’t protect it, the least he could do was pave the way for a new administration.

He knew it was coming. He just didn’t know it would be so hard.

His assets have been frozen for the duration of the ongoing investigation still taking place - to ensure he is who he says he is, a man who bleeds for America and not a turncoat. And that, more than anything else, hurts. 

All at once he is cut off from every luxury his name and lineage has ever afforded him. No businessman will touch him, thanks to the papers and the headlines. No bank will grant him a loan with his assets frozen. And even though Sera is his friend, she cannot unfreeze his assets. She cannot break the law.

He is kicked out of his apartment rather quickly. Grindelwald had not being paying the rent or the utilities, and now that he could not afford to, he finds the notice on his door unsurprising. His possessions are seized to pay for the debt - after MACUSA makes them no-maj safe, of course, storing all of his magical valuables in a vault until his name clears. 

He has only the meager things he managed to stuff into a case before they could stop him. 

It’s cold, this time of year, and his coat quickly tatters from the elements. He uses charms, as subtle as he can manage, to insulate the space between his coat and his body and heat it, but the charms always diffuse the moment he falls asleep without foci, and the stress from his exhaustion begins to catch up with him. 

Hungry, as it turns out, also blindsides him. He has never been a particularly food-motivated man. He often times forgot to eat at all, when too focused or preoccupied by work. But it’s a different matter all together when suddenly all he has is time. Time to think about the burning in his stomach, the empty ache of it. The way the acid seems to churn, chewing in on itself in search of anything to consume. The gnawing feeling quickly turns into spasms and sharp pains that leave him dizzy - and although he tries to avoid it, he does devolve to stealing from no-maj eateries with a wave of one hand to take meals that are not his, leaving the cashier thinking they fulfilled an order and the original purchaser believing they simply changed their mind or hadn’t been served yet.

But days without proper food, water or sleep begin to wear on him. One day, his charms are not strong enough and he actually has to run from a sandwich shop that catches him trying to snatch a meager meal.

Things go downhill from there. The winter grows colder, snow falling more and more commonly as the temperature drops. Grates and public areas like train stations are his only saving grace, and even those do not last long.

He begins to frequent soup kitchens and churches, but even those begin to grow tight in the beginning pains of a changing economy. So he struggles, but never once reaches back to the people and the old life he failed to live up to.

If he is to die like this, cold and alone, he thinks morbidly that he earned it.

When he’s finally found, he is barely recognizable. His clothing is a pale ghost of its former glory, and his face is hidden beneath a beard unkept and unseemly. his gloves do not match and some of the fingers are missing, leaving a few digits cold and barren and blue at the nail beds; dirty and chipped. His hair is longer than he’s ever kept it. Long ago someone had stolen his shoes and the ones he managed to get since are slightly too big, making him look small and withered in the clothing that once fit him like a glove. 

He sits in a subway station, tucked away into an alcove where he can usually manage to enjoy the heat and a little sleep for at least an hour or two before someone will shoo him away. Sometimes when he wakes, he’ll find coins scattered at his feet. No-maj money, something he never thought he’d be grateful for. Sometimes he finds snacks or bottled water. Today, he finds nothing at his feet but a shadow.

He sighs and fights down his drowsiness as he begin to get to his feet, a murmured “I’m going, I’m going” already slipping past his lips in preparation for the inevitable shooing.

“Percy?” The voice asks instead, short and thready and shocked, and he stills.

It’s like hearing a name from a distant dream, and when he slowly raises his gaze, familiar hazel eyes are looking down on him. 

Theseus is the anchor he has always remembered him to be. His uniform, rich and earthy, makes him look powerful and tall thanks to its crisp lines and smart badges. He has his hat tucked under one arm, his duffel over the other shoulder. His shoes shine even in the dimness of the station, and a man inside Graves from another life wonders about the brand he must use to get a shine as nice as that. 

“T-Theseus,” he whispers back before he can stop himself, before he can try to pretend to be someone else – before he can save his dignity.

Hands take him by the shoulders and hold him tight, pinning him in place as he roves over him searching merlin knew what.

“You’re—you… Hells bells, Percival, you just stopped writing! And I heard what happened, but the Ministry wouldn’t let me get away. I tried to write to you, to reach you via flu – anything, but I couldn’t find you. Your President was bloody useless. I came as soon as I can, I–”

Graves let the words wash over him, eyes wide as they sunk in. Theseus had come for him. Not for Newt. Not for a mission. For him. 

He was going to be so disappointed when he realized Percival deserved what he got…

“Theseus,” he said, cutting the man off with a rough, disused whisper that silenced him easily. “She didn’t help because I’m not her problem. I’m lucky they didn’t throw me in jail. They have other things to worry about – like cleaning up my mess… I’m not surprised she couldn’t tell you where I was. I haven’t seen her in weeks.”

“Weeks,” Theseus gasped, and Graves blinked. What an odd part of the story to get caught on. “You’ve been out here for weeks?! She’s supposed to be your bloody friend, I’m going to–”

“I’m being investigated as a turncoat, Theseus. There wasn’t anything she could do.”

Theseus stilled, and finally Graves knew the truth had sunken in. He’d leave him now, as he should, to stew in the pissy-smell of New York’s underground. Where he belonged. He closed his eyes and waited for it.

Instead, he was drawn into a sudden and breath seizing embrace.

“You stupid sonofabitch,” he said into Graves’ hair, “I have so much to say about that. But this isn’t the place. You’re coming with me. I’m going to feed you, get you washed up. And then we are going to have a very long chat about what you do and don’t deserve, and what your President very fucking well could have done instead of throwing her friend to the wolves. Like, say, have your bloody back.”

“Theseus!”

Theseus shot him a sharp, dark look before winding an arm around his shoulders and quickly leading him away. Tired and starved as he was, he could hardly refuse - though he tried. And all around him, people looked at Theseus as though he were a saint for reaching so low beneath his station to raise another man up.

If only they knew the truth, Percival thought, and they’d realize Theseus was so much more than that. So much better.

Theseus takes him to his hotel. He shoves him into the bathroom while he orders entirely too much food service, and lets Graves bathe to his content. Graves has to drain the water twice to clear it of his filth. He falls asleep despite the fact he wanted to be back into his own clothing before Theseus could see the extent of his fall from grace outlined in his skin - and he startles at the feel of hands rubbing shampoo into his hair and scalp, working it into a lather.

“Theseus,” he gasps and tries to hide his body, but the water does nothing to hide the visible count of his ribs or the knobbyness of his spine. The thinness of his ankles or the brittle jut of his wrists. 

“There’s food in the other room, I’ve got a charm on it to keep it warm,” he says softly, and Graves can’t help but feel guilty in the absence of Theseus’ disgust. “We’ll get you right as rain and then some. Fill all your old britches before you know it.”

Graves blinks.

“What?”

“If you think I’m leaving you here, you’re off your rocker, mate. I’m staying with you, at least until you can stand in a stiff breeze without fear of keeling over.”

He grabs Theseus’ wrist above his head, and the knowledge that Theseus lets him still his hand – that he is not actually strong enough – hurts.

“Theseus, I deserve this. I couldn’t–”

“Don’t you fucking dare get on your soap box and preach about justice, Percival Graves. You sit there and listen. This country failed you. You and your family have done nothing but sacrifice your blood and your families and your sanity and your dreams for it, and this is how it repays you? In your time of need they did not even notice you were gone. And instead of acknowledging its shortcomings, MACUSA threw a tortured and injured man under the bus – a man they should have noticed had gone missing. You’re just one man, Percival. You cannot bare a country’s mistakes upon your shoulders. And a good leader wouldn’t never have asked you to. This was wrong. And I’m going to use every day to prove it to you until you realize you deserved more, deserved better.”

But I don’t… he thinks, but does not say it. Instead he allows himself one day to be weak and give into temptation in the face of Theseus’ confidence and steadfast determination, and lets him pamper him. He lets Theseus run water over his scalp, gently cupping his face to protect his eyes. Lets him bathe his back, his arms, his legs, even though he already had. Lets him towel his hair dry and wrap him in soft robes. Feed him, tuck him into a warm bed and curl around him.

He lets him, because the director of magical security died a long time ago, and what was left behind is too tired to fight the lull of a full belly and the comfort of a friendly embrace. He closes his eyes, head tucked beneath Theseus’ chin, and wonders if Theseus is right.

Wonders if Theseus can convince him he’s worth existing. And as he falls asleep he thinks: if anyone can, it’s him.

[chris--daae]

Sooo... @opera-ghost made a shitpost that featured an... unusual pairing. And I wanted to write something more serious about it. This is what came from it.

"You can stay here." Said the kind woman, pointing to the dark corridor in front. "I know it's not the most comfortable place, but..." She trailed off.

It was much better than any place he had been in at least the last 16 years, he wanted to say. But his head hurt, the weight of everything that happened that day finally coming to him, and his voice was hoarse, not used to making any sounds but cries of pain and pleas for mercy.

"It will do." Was all he could say. And then, words that he didn't remember using before. "Thank you, Madame."

She gave him a small smile, not that he could see much. He was thankful for the darkness.

"Be careful here, boy." She warned. "You should not extend your stay for long. There are dangerous presences around. Please, leave as soon as you can."

"I will."

He didn't want to say he wasn't a boy. He kept count of his years, and despite his fragile appearance he was already a man. He also didn't want to say that he had already overgrown ghost stories.

He knew reality was much scarier.

Giving a nod, the woman turned away and slowly left. He kept his gaze on her, until she disappeared in darkness.

Then, he rested his bare back on a humid wall. He was so tired. His legs hurt from all the running, unused to any use. The wounds on his back hurt, a familiar company already. His head hurt. His heart hurt. Without warning, his body collapsed to the ground. It was hard and cold, but it did not matter. He allowed sleep to take over.

It was usually quiet at night. Except for the usual sounds of night, the footsteps of small creatures and the water dripping, a strange and comforting melody. That night, there was another sound.

Erik heard it as he took a walk in his domain. Like a soft roaring, low and following a pattern. He followed the sound, expecting to find a cat or another animal that could have taken refuge in the cellars.

He didn't expect to find a man lying on the ground.

The sound alone proved he was alive. His body trembled from the cold breeze. He wore nothing but a pair of dirty and ragged pants. His exposed chest and arms were covered in bruises and scars, and a layer that was certainly a mix of dirt and blood. As his chest slowly moved in rhythm with the snoring, his ribs were visible under the injured skin.

Poor creature. Erik decided he didn't mind his presence in the cellars. It was particularly cold outside, and the man certainly had nowhere else to go. He did not see anything he should not, sleeping heavily as he was. If he had stumbled into any of Erik's secrets, his traps would have taken care of him. No, the man's only crime was being all alone in that cold night.

Erik knew well what it was like.

He turned away, starting his walk back home. A shiver ran through his spine. It was really cold, he could still feel it even under all his layers of clothing. He turned his head back to the man.

"No." He whispered to himself, shaking his head. "Erik has nothing to do with him."

He took another step forward, and once again looked back.

"He will freeze to death if he stays here." He reasoned. "What if he does? No one will miss him. Erik certainly will not."

A sigh.

"He's just a nobody. Erik does not have to do anything for him."

A heavier sigh.

"He's just a nobody.", Erik repeated in a softer tone. "If Erik doesn't do this, who will?"

He knelt down and carefully picked the sleeping man in his arms. The man kept snoring, showing no signs of waking up. His scent was worse than that of the stables, like sweat and piss and mud and many other things Erik didn't want to think of.

"He better be thankful, for Erik is saving his life."

Erik decided to leave the man in his guest room. He would have to get rid of all the sheets in the morning, as no cleaning would be enough to remove the stains or the smell. Still, he didn't think twice before wrapping him the best he could, making sure he was protected from the cold.

In the light of his home, Erik could take a better look at the man. He was too thin for his height, no fat in his arms and legs. His wounds were all superficial, nothing that required special attention. Still, Erik could see that they were no accident. His dark gray hair was a tangled mess. He had a well defined nose, thin lips, a wide chin. Even in the bad condition he was, he was undoubtedly  handsome. However, the right side of his face was covered by a large red mark, his skin swollen, his eyebrow and hair much thinner in that side. At first it looked like another wound, but Erik soon realized his skin was not damaged. It just... looked like that, ruining what would otherwise look like it was sculpted by the hands of gods. A scar, perhaps. Or a birth mark. Erik's hand went to his own face, touching the fabric of his mask.

He knew very well how gods liked playing this way sometimes.

He blew the candles and closed the door on his way out, letting the man rest. As he later crawled into his coffin to get some sleep himself, he could still hear the snoring, a new sound in night's melody.

Erik enjoyed it more than he could admit to himself.

The wanderer noticed he was in an unfamiliar place before he opened his eyes. He was covered in softness. Panic rose inside of him. As he opened his eyes, all he could see was one small line of light. A melody was playing on the background.

He tried getting up, but the soft material that covered him was also restraining him somehow, wrapping his limbs. The fear made him helpless to get free, the blankets working like the strongest ropes against his struggling. The wanderer felt his heart stopping for a second as one of his movements caused a loud banging sound. The melody stopped. He heard footsteps approaching.

He managed to free one of his arms before the door opened, and raised it to his face as the light invaded the room.

At first, all he could see was a shadow against the light. As his eyes slowly got used to it, he identified it as a man's silhouette. He was tall and thin, dressed in all black. A fancy suit, boots, gloves, and a black mask that covered all his face, except for his amber eyes. Eyes that kept a deep stare at the wanderer, who felt like they could see directly to his soul.

"Who are you? Where am I?" Shouted the wanderer, trying to sound braver than he felt.

"I see you woke up." Replied the man, his voice calm and soft.

The wanderer fought against the blankets.

"Answer me, or I will-" He didn't know what he would do, but he was not about to let that man hurt him. Not without a fight. He hesitated, as he didn't know what he was facing, or if there were others around. The only thing the wanderer knew for sure was that he was alone, as always.

"You are the one who should answer, considering you are in my house." The shadow said, unimpressed.

His house, the wanderer noted. A large room with no windows in that stranger's house. His struggling became more urgent.

"I suppose you are homeless."

"Yes." The wanderer answered, not wanting to anger him.

"Family? Friends?" He asked. "A wife?"

Feeling mocked, the wanderer just shook his head. His other arm was finally free.

"No one to miss you if you disappear." The shadow whispered.

In one fast move, the wanderer jumped out of the bed, stopping right in front of the stranger. His raised his fist, but something held his wrist, pressing tightly and painfully. He couldn't see what it was at first, but looking closely he realized it was a thin cord. He tried pulling his arm free, but its hold only grew tighter.

"Don't try messing with the master, boy." The shadow said in a voice that gave the wanderer shivers. "Next time, it could be your neck that my cord will meet."

The wanderer lowered his hand, and just as it appeared the cord left his arm.

"There's a washroom there." The shadow pointed to a door. "Clean yourself. You will find all you need there. There are clean clothes inside the wardobre."

With these words, he left and closed the door.

The wanderer noted he heard no key clicking.

He held his wrist, at the regions where he felt the cord before. He cold see a small red line forming a spiral around it. If it held any tighter, it could have drawn blood. He shivered at the idea.

He was completely at the mercy of that man, and he still had no idea of what his intentions were.

He checked the wardobre, and as the stranger said inside was a complete set of clothing. The wanderer touched them, feeling the expensive fabric in his hands. It has been too long since he had last had real clothes.

He entered the washroom, that had not only everything he would need for a bath but also a good amount of medical supplies.

He spent a long time in the water, not sparing any soap. He scrubbed every inch of his body, until it scratched his skin. When at last he felt clean, he let out a laugh. It felt good.

The wanderer realized there was no mirror there. It was a small relief. He had not seen his own cursed face in years and had no wishes of seeing it so soon. He cleaned his worse wounds, but saw no need for bandages. He found a small pair of scissors, and guided only by instinct cut his own hair.

He fumbled with buttons as he tried the clothes. They were too big for his unhealthily thin body, but they were comfortable and had a nice cologne smell. He decided to stay in only shirts and pants, ignoring the other pieces that he didn't know how to wear.

He felt like a new man, clean and (almost) properly dressed.

Like the room he was in, the washroom also didn't have any windows. He had no idea of where he was or why. He couldn't even know what time of the day it was. There was a melody playing again. Carefully, he went for the door, the only exit he saw.

Erik left his new guest and waited by his piano. He listened carefully, and only when he was sure the man was bathing he resumed his song.

A guest, he laughed to himself as his fingers created the melody on their own. Yes, he had a house and he had a guest room, why not have a guest? Even more fitting that it was someone who just like himself would be considered an outsider by human society.

At least Erik assumed he would, by the state he was, and by the injuries he carried, certainly caused by another man. He would not be surprised if the man had said he had a family waiting for him. If he was born in the right place, he could have a wife, even with his marks. It was probably not a success with ladies, but surely there was a woman who saw his beauty beyond that!

But he seemed as alone as Erik himself. He had an accent, but even with all his trips Erik could not tell where it was from. Maybe he grew up in a multicultural environment, maybe it was just that no one taught him proper pronunciation. Erik had a guess of where he came from, the mark and his wounds and his speech and clothes and scent, all fitting perfectly. But he didn't want to believe it. The notes he played grew dissonant. Then, the sound of the door opening made him stop.

"Are you hungry?" He asked, not turning to face the man.

"Yes."

He nodded.

"Erik will prepare some food. You will like it."

He walked to the kitchen, feeling the man following him.

As Erik started taking the ingredients for their meal, still not facing the man, he heard him ask:

"Where am I?"

"In my house, as I said."

"You didn't lock the door." His voice trembled.

"You are no prisoner of Erik." He said calmly.

"Why am I here?"

Erik shrugged.

"Do you have anywhere else to be?"

As he didn't receive a reply, Erik glanced at the man, not keeping his sight on him for long. He had his head low.

The bath did him wonders, as did the haircut. It was not perfect, uneven at some parts, but Erik had to give him merit for doing it without a mirror.

He knew he would stare if he allowed himself to. The man had green eyes, green like the leaves made by Mother Nature. The clothes made his malnourishment more obvious. Erik noticed he did not measure the food for two, but for a full family of six. He started boiling the water.

"Erik found you nearby." He explained. "You seemed cold. The cellars are no place to sleep."

"I know." The man sighed. "I would not be there if I had a choice." Erik nodded.

"No one wants to live in the catacombs of hell if they have a choice."

He stole another glance at the man. The over sized shirt was not buttoned correctly. Erik had to hold himself to not fix it himself.

"Erik will give you new sheets for tonight."

"Who is Erik?"

"I am Erik, of course." He realized his mistake. "Please forgive my way of expressing myself. I am not used to having guests."

The wanderer nodded, the word "guest" echoing in his mind. So far, no more hostility from the shadow- from Erik. But he could still feel the cord around his arm, it still made him fear and be careful with his words.

When Erik served the food, the wanderer did not hold himself. He would have been more ashamed of eating like a savage, like an animal in front of a man who acted so much as a gentleman. But he was hungry, his last meal had been days ago.

He noticed Erik avoided looking at him, and he couldn't blame him for that. But he looked at Erik, maybe for longer than he should. He couldn't help it. Erik moved in a way that could only be described as fascinating. Every part of his body was hidden behind black fabric, making he really seem like a walking shadow. His voice was softer than most of the men's voice that he ever heard.

The wanderer figured Erik could not eat with his mask on. He waited expectantly for him to take it off, but he never did. Despite putting a plate in front of himself, he didn't serve any.

The wanderer ate quickly, until he felt full. There was still a lot of food left. Erik did not comment on his lack of manners or on how much he ate. The wanderer stared at him awkwardly, not sure of what to do or say now.

But Erik didn't seem to notice, instead with his gaze lowered to his own hands. The wanderer finally decided to stand up. As Erik didn't protest, he left to the room where he woke up in.

He sat on the floor, thinking of what now. After an hour or so, he heard music again. He had seen Erik by the piano before, so he guessed it was him playing. The melody made him feel calm, even if he had all reasons to feel anything but. It was comforting, even with the underlying melancholy there. He imagined Erik's hands running through the piano keys, and his own hands followed the movements. His eyes closed and he stopped thinking, stopped worrying. All he felt was the music.

Erik knocked on the door before opening it. His guest was sitting on the floor. Once again, Erik tried not to stare. He instead went to change the bed sheets.

"You didn't try to run away."

"You said I was no prisoner."

The man sounded much calmer than he did earlier. Erik appreciated that.

"You acted as if you believed you were."

The man took a while to reply.

"It's like you said. There's no one to miss me if I disappear. I have no one, nowhere to go." There was just a little sadness in his voice.

Erik just nodded, feeling some sadness too.

"What do you expect from me?" The man asked.

"Nothing."

"No one gives someone a thing expecting nothing." The man snorted. "Specially not to someone like me."

"Erik has been alone before too." He explained. I still am, he didn't add. "With nowhere to go. With nothing but his own clothes."

The man gave him a questioning look. Those green eyes...

Time passed fast in that house with no windows. The wanderer found a clock, but the numbers meant little to him.

Erik did not seem to give it much consideration anyway. He served food whenever the wanderer was hungry, and never ate or slept when he was around. He wasn't sure if Erik ever ate or slept at all. Sometimes he left to take care of his business.

The wanderer saw the entrance to the house. It was a complete darkness outside. He never tried leaving. He had no reason to.

Erik was not a bad company. He was always playing or taking care of some chore around the house. The wanderer learned that he composed his own music, writing down the notes after playing, always in red ink. But sometimes, when he was about to sleep, he could swear he recognized some old lullaby there.

Erik also never removed the mask. The wanderer did not feel like asking about it. He would not have recognized Erik if he did. He didn't know anyone. He didn't fail to notice that Erik never revealed his surname, nor any other detail about himself. He entertained him when he wanted to talk, but on the rare occasion the wanderer asked something, his replies were vague.

There were no windows anywhere in the house, and Erik never received anyone there. Yet he had a guest room. He kept the house on his own, never asking for any help and certainly never receiving it from any outsider.

The wanderer felt well there. He had a roof over his head, though he had no idea where they were, and a company that did not insult or abuse him. He had food and clothes and nice background music. He wondered if that was what a normal life felt like.

But when he thought about Erik and all the mysteries about him, about the way he treated him well but would never look at him for long, he couldn't help but have strange thoughts. He felt he was being kept just like a pet. Erik must be a rich man, he had no doubts of it, and he had reasons to hide his identity. It felt terrible, to think that he was being cared for but still seen as inferior, as less than human. But it was still better than the circus and the cage, than being beaten and displayed, hearing people's screams and mocking. Had he any right of wanting to be treated as an equal? He should be thankful for everything that Erik gave him.

Being a pet to a nice master was still better than being free in a merciless world.

Erik did not see a problem with the man staying at his house. He expected to. He planned on making him go away soon.

Every day that passed made him want it less and less.

He did not think having someone around would feel so nice. How lonely had he been before!

It was like having a new purpose in life. He did not want to stay away long, what if his guest needed something? And he couldn't even think of doing anything dangerous. He had to go back home, he had to be there.

Erik's overall mood improved. He wasn't as picky about the happenings at his opera house anymore. It didn't feel as important anymore. Not as important as pampering the man that lived with him.

He bought clothes that fitted him. He was glad to see the man gaining some weight, as he now ate properly. Erik also made sure to buy enough provisions to always give him nice meals. The man still didn't dress properly, but if he felt comfortable showing so much of his skin like that, Erik would not be the one to complain. It made it hard not to stare though. Be it for the scars that covered his body, or by how nice it looked.

And wasn't the man blessed when it came to looks? The mark on his face was the only flaw, and even that seemed small near all his other attributes. As he got healthier, his body got a pleasant overall shape. More often than he wished to, Erik found himself wanting to see more. Wanting to sketch such beauty, such perfection, so he could have a proof that it existed when he left.

Because Erik knew he would eventually leave. Because as much as Erik wanted him to stay forever, he knew he would leave, and he should. He had so much potential in him, he could not stay underground forever.

Erik knew his life would never be the same when he did. Now that he knew what it felt like to have the company of a real person, how could he go back to being alone? The silence of the night would be too much without his snoring, his life would be too empty without hearing his soft humming every day as he bathed, without feeling his presence sitting around as Erik composed.

Erik was proud of himself that he didn't make the man want to leave yet. He tried his best not to scare him out. He didn't allow himself to stare, as much as he wished. He never walked around the house without his mask. Even his room, he left locked at all times, not wanting him to see that his host lived like a dead man. He also was careful as he spoke.

And it worked well. More often than not, the man was around him. He didn't show the fear that was so clear during the first days anymore, and he didn't hesitate expressing his needs. They had a nice relationship.

Erik never expected it to go so well.

One day, however, he realized the reason. He saw the man looking at a wall, a longing look on his face. He realized he had never left the house since the day Erik brought him there.

"Have you ever worn a full suit?" Erik suddenly asked.

"A couple of times." The man replied, not turning at him. 

Most of their conversations did not include eye contact. Erik was okay with that. Not really, as he wished he could look at the other man more often, but it was better this way.

"You should wear one now."

"Any special reason for it?"

Erik shrugged.

"I think we could see a nice night outside."

He didn't want to tell Erik that he did not know how to put those clothes on. There was so much he did not know, and he couldn't not feel inferior near Erik.

The wanderer did the best he could, wearing it as it seemed right.

Erik smiled as he saw him. He wore them completely wrong. There was something adorable in it.

"You look beautiful." Erik commented, sincerely.

The wanderer turned to the side, his brows furrowing. It seemed a nice idea, a night walk outside. It has been a while since he last was outside. But Erik's comment reminded him of why. It felt safe in his house. He was used even to the way Erik always avoided looking at him. There were no daily insults, and no mirrors. He could let himself not think of his own appearance for as long as he wished.

Erik probably did not mean to be so cruel in his comment, but it hurt.

"I... I think I don't want to go."

Erik let his eyes met the wanderer for a moment. He felt something was off.

"What is the problem?"

"You won't want to be seen with me." The wanderer pointed to himself. He felt so stupid for agreeing and even getting excited with the idea. He knew he looked stupid.

"Don't worry, no one will see us." Erik said, hoping to ease his worries. He knew there was almost no one out in the streets that late. It was his favorite time to leave his house.

It didn't help. The wanderer was starting to feel it was only one cruel joke.

Erik noticed something was still off. After thinking for some time, he had an idea. "Wait here." He said, walking to his room.

Erik came back with another mask in his hands. It was the one he usually wore at home (before he had his guest around), one that left mouth and chin uncovered. He handed it to the wanderer.

"You will feel better with this."

The wanderer took it in his hands and silently thought. Back in the circus, he was allowed to cover his head when he wasn't being displayed. He didn't think of doing so now that he was free, but it was mostly because Erik didn't make him feel like he had to. Which was ironic, as Erik covered his own face all the time. He smiled at the thought that no one could tell how they didn't match if they were both covered, and decided to put it on.

Erik offered the wanderer a hand, that he quickly accepted. The two walked together out of the house, towards the darkness.

"Where exactly are we?" The wanderer asked.

"Not too far from where I found you."

The wanderer nodded. He had figured the house was underground.

"Are we still-"

"Under the opera? Yes." Erik replied. It was no use trying to hide it now.

"How is this possible?" The wanderer asked, amazed that a whole house could be located there.

"I knew some people." Erik shrugged. He did not feel like telling the whole story. Not yet.

"It's amazing." The wanderer looked down. Erik was really amazing.

Erik shrugged again.

"I will teach you how to locate yourself around here. If you wish so, of course." He offered. "It's not that hard. You just must be careful."

"Yes, I heard there are dangers around." The wanderer remembered the nice lady who brought him there.

"But you don't need to be afraid. I assure you I am the most dangerous thing around." Erik said with some pride.

The wanderer rolled his eyes.

"I don't believe you."

"It's true! I have a certain fame around here too."

"Yeah, yeah." The wanderer said in a playful tone.

Erik frowned at how he was not being taken seriously, but something in how naturally the wanderer dismissed him, or in the way his lips curled up in a smile, something there gave him a warm feeling.

Erik guided the wanderer towards the Rue Scribe door, the safest and easiest way out. They stopped for a few minutes as the wanderer caught a glimpse of the lake. He looked at it with wonder in his eyes.

"It's wonderful."

Erik nodded, but it was not the lake that he had in mind.

Once they got outside, the winded greeted them with a cold blow. They walked side by side on the empty streets, under a starry sky. The moon shone in its full glory, offering its silver light.

The wanderer's bare hand unconsciously moved towards Erik's gloved one. He realized he was no longer afraid.

"The sky is beautiful today, isn't it?" Erik asked.

The wanderer nodded.

"It really is."

"Nights as this are the most inspiring." More than he could tell.

"For your music?"

"Yes." Erik nodded. He felt suddenly bold. After long weeks holding himself, he felt he now could express himself more freely. "Of course, it is only better with such a charming company."

The wanderer felt like he was stabbed. His hand let go of Erik's.

Erik looked at him, not understanding.

"Do you want to go back?" He asked.

"Yes, I would like to." The wanderer said, his eyes not meeting Erik's.

"Of course. My pretty boy should not stay out in the cold for so long." Erik cursed his words as soon as they left his mouth. Too fast, too soon.

The wanderer was a few steps ahead of Erik, remembering well the way they came from. He didn't want to look at Erik, he didn't want to even be near Erik. Tears filled his eyes. He had believed Erik was different. He had believed his intentions were true, which made his mocking only more painful.

Erik was sure that any moment he was going to turn to a different street and go away forever. Why, why did he have to flirt like a young maiden? He didn't have even the right to stand near the wanderer, and he had to ruin everything asking for more. His incapacity of contenting himself with what he got, his ambition for more, that was going to be the death of him someday!

The wanderer stopped by the secret door, as only Erik had the key. Erik soon reached him, and with some difficulty, as his hands trembled, unlocked the entrance.

"Erik is sorry!" He exclaimed, his back to the wanderer. "Erik d- I didn't want to scare you."

The wanderer said nothing. Again, he walked ahead of Erik, his steps hard on the stone. Erik kept his senses alert, worried that he would accidentally get into a trap or call someone's attention with the noise.

He only relaxed when they safely arrived at his house. Door safely closed, he finally asked.

"Please tell Erik how to fix it, pretty boy!"

"Stop calling me that!" The wanderer yelled, finally facing Erik. His eyes were red with anger and sadness. "I'm not a boy, and I'm certainly not pretty!" He took off the mask and threw it to the floor.

"Erik is old enough to be your father." He felt a lump in his throat.

"I have a name."

"You never told Erik what it is."

It was true. The wanderer had never said his name to Erik, nor to anyone else. It was the last dignity he could have, never allowing anyone to insult him with his true name.

He noticed Erik did not justify calling him pretty.

"Call me what I really am." He said with a low voice, a tear threatening to finally fall. "A freak!"

Erik froze at the word. It was true then, that it was no accident that the wanderer was alone and injured when he found him. He had tasted some of human's cruelty before they met.

"You are not a freak." He said in a firm tone.

The wanderer let out a humorless laugh.

"I know pretty well what I am." The tear fell. "I almost believed that it was not how you see me, but I know well that you only mock me with all of this!" Erik growled in frustration.

"You think I see you as a freak? I will show you what a freak really is!" He shouted, before taking off his mask.

The wanderer's eyes widened as he saw Erik's face for the first time.

Erik sighed.

"This is a freak." His voice sounded defeated. "You, boy, are just a handsome young man in an unfortunate circumstance."

The wanderer kept frozen in place as Erik left to his own room. He stared at the mask Erik lent him, and all the pieces finally fell into place.

He stopped at Erik's room's door. It was the only place in the house he never entered. He pondered if he should knock or not, and decided to just enter. The first thing that caught his attention was the coffin at the center. Erik sat on the floor, his back leaning against it, looking blankly at the wall. The mask rested by his side.

Not knowing what words to say, the wanderer sat by his side.

"I should have let you know sooner." Erik said, not looking at him.

"You should have." The wanderer nodded. "Why didn't you?"

"I wasn't ready to lose you."

The wanderer rested his head on his shoulder.

"You thought I, of all people, would be this shallow?" He asked in a soft tone.

"You thought so about me."

The wanderer could not deny it.

"Gerard."

"What?" Erik asked.

"My name. Gerard. You are the first person besides my parents to know it." Erik's arm moved around his waist, pulling him in an embrace.

"It's a fitting name."

A comfortable silence followed, as each man enjoyed the other's touch.